


Why Don't We Just Do It In The Road

by Unchained_Daisychain



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Comforting Paul, Drunk John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Beatles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 20:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10473627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/pseuds/Unchained_Daisychain
Summary: Lecherous impulses, repressed feelings, and unshakable love ensue during a night where Paul takes care of a drunk John





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is the the first fic I've written, so thanks for reading! Thank you for the support, and all constructive comments are appreciated! :)

If not for the steady glimmer emanating from the street lamps evenly scattered about the sidewalks every few yards, Forthlin Road would be encompassed by the darkness of the warm summer night.  And if not for one staggering, drunken teddy boy and his sober chaperone, the current out-of-tune slur of an old Liverpool folk song would be replaced by the soft rustle of a breeze through the trees. However, such was not the case as the eldest Liverpudlian clumsily clung to his steady mate while they crept past familiar homes.

_"Ohhh, dirty Maggie Mae! They ‘ave taken ‘er away and --”_ The clammy hand of his buzz-killing lover interrupted an incredibly inebriated John Lennon from his impromptu performance.

“Quiet, John. _Quiet,_ ” Paul hissed as he hastily surveyed their surroundings to ensure the doors of all neighboring homes were securely shut and curtains tightly sealed. The last thing he wanted was to spend the night in a cell because his best mate felt the need to be more vocal than necessary at the ungodly hour of two a.m. With one year in the bag as friends, three more as a secret couple, and plenty of drunken nights in between, Paul was well versed on how to handle a tipsy Lennon. He was not going to be bested by slurred speech and fumbling footsteps tonight.

Paul didn’t so much as flinch when he felt the slick wetness of John’s tongue caressing his palm, which remained firmly planted on the his mate's thin lips. Whether John did it to get Paul to actually remove the offending appendage, or because the devilishly randy bugger residing within him after one too many drinks was clawing its way to the surface, Paul did not know. Regardless of the intention, years spent pestering his younger brother left him unscathed to a little lick to the hand.

“Can you keep quiet?” Paul asked as he fixed John with a scolding look. John slowly nodded his acquiescence like a guilty child, and Paul couldn’t help but feel a twinge of adoration for his mate…even in this sloshed state.

There they stood, in the middle of the street, with John in all of his drunken glory: tediously styled quiff hanging carelessly across his forehead from the uncontrollable head shaking on the Cavern stage and the heady snog that soon followed in the alley--clothes ruffled from the hurried manner with which Paul had to pull him from an out-matched yet inevitable bar brawl. Before he was saving the older boy’s arse from a battered face, Paul begrudgingly recalled not even being fully tipsy, far too engrossed in his conversation with George about next week’s gig to catch up to John’s (seemingly engulfed) five pints. Hauling his impaired lover out of the club before he could hurl anymore verbal lashings at the stocky sailors inside, Paul trudged their sorry arses down the road.

These nights were nothing like the swinging scene of Hamburg. Paul couldn’t help but think John was trying to recreate the grandeur of the German city. If that was the case, he couldn’t blame him. But the domesticated Liverpool life was nothing compared to the hustle and bustle of that foreign nightlife. The topnotch beer flowed freely through their veins as the steady beat of rock n’ roll set the pace for their descent into the corruption of the deliciously sinful city. They couldn’t replicate it if they’d tried. And boy, did they try.

Paul jarred himself from his fond memories and set them aside to re-assume the role of watchful guardian. He took John’s drunken promise to remain hushed with a grain of salt but didn’t have the patience to personally muzzle the man during their walk. Keeping him upright was enough of a chore.

Unconcerned with traffic at this hour, they were stopped dead in the street as Paul reluctantly removed his hand from John’s mouth. No sooner had Paul withdrew his hand, than John grabbed his shirt by the fistfuls to pull him in for a demanding kiss.

“Mmph--” The startled sound barely made its way past Paul’s lips before it was smothered in a heap of louder kissing. Paul couldn’t say John’s drunk kisses were his best ones; they were always a tad sloppy and aggressive. Sometimes, he didn’t mind if he was in a similarly randy state and desperately seeking release; but tonight, he was completely knackered. Nonetheless, he surrendered to John’s frantic snog for a moment, if only to satiate the older boy. There was the initial clash of teeth from first impact, which was followed by a forcefully intruding, yet not entirely displeasing, tongue. Paul decided alcohol-tainted breath wasn’t the best taste if you weren’t equally as pissed. Apparently, John wasn’t too keen on wooing Paul tonight.

Paul pulled away with a playful yet warning tug of John’s lower lip by way of punishment. The hungry and predatory flare in John’s eye didn’t go unnoticed by the younger lad. There were yellow tigers crouched in jungles in those dark eyes. Their two-year age gap had never been so tangible as it was at times like these. Where John, in all his suave bravado, made Paul feel like an inexperienced virgin with one bloody look. Or, perhaps it was the intent _behind_ the look that prompted inferiority. It was a look that said John’s lust was inexorable--and, unheeded, he’d find release.

With a lionesque growl, John lunged for the kill, nipping at Paul’s neck. The latter barely had time to recuperate from the first assault before he felt the blissful blitz of a second round. John firmly placed one hand on Paul’s neck while he indulged in the salty skin at the other side. His other hand clutched and twisted at the white fabric of Paul’s t-shirt. All the younger lad could do was subconsciously tilt his head for his lover’s eager mouth and will himself to reclaim his senses. After all, he was a randy teenager, as well, so it wasn’t fair for him to always be the responsible prude. He did at least had enough sense to move them into a bed, though.

“C’mon, Johnny. Let’s get inside, yeah?” Paul urged, biting back a moan to remain as level-headed as possible when John sucked at the skin behind his ear.

John persistently licked and nibbled at Paul’s sensitive skin, heating him up quicker than any summer day could. He trailed his kisses higher, reaching just beneath Paul’s ear, and eased his hand lower, searching for the fine line between cotton and skin. “No time. Need it now, Macca,” he whispered breathily in his ear. Paul found that the same breath repulsing him moments ago now sent an exciting chill down his spine, and he let his eyes flutter closed at the sensation.

On their own accord, his hands grasped at the back of John’s leather jacket, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer. Drunk or sober, John’s kisses always conjured involuntary responses from Paul’s body while his brain battled restlessly between pleasure and reason. John, always the hedonist, had told Paul on numerous occasions to “don’t think, just _feel.”_

The feeling of talented fingers fumbling with his belt buckle snapped Paul back into sensibility. His lustful doe eyes shot wide open as he pushed the sex-crazed Lennon to arms-length. He was chagrined to see the evidence of John’s seduction in his suddenly-too-tight trousers.

After catching his breath, he implored, “We can’t do this here. We’re almost at my house. Let’s just get in, okay?”

John let his predatory gaze falter to a mischievous glint in his brown eyes as he coyly crept forward. He gently grabbed the firm hands on his shoulders and held them between their bodies--a physical dichotomy of drunkenness and sobriety, recklessness and rationality. Paul knowingly kept his wits about him, having noted the flash of wickedness in his older mate’s eye. He was no stranger to John’s faux innocence. However, the boy merely stood toe-to-toe with Paul and locked their eyes while occupying himself with the stiff hands in his own. With calloused and lithe fingers, John played with Paul’s similarly supple fingers as he would his guitar, experienced and impassioned. He threaded his fingers through the others he loved so much, occasionally grazing the palm or plucking a fingernail.

“Why don’t we just do it in the road?” John leaned in and whispered huskily. Paul scoffed at the absurdity of the suggestion, somewhat breaking the sexual tension John had created.

“Oh yeah, just strip off our trousers right here and give the whole bloody neighborhood a show,” Paul jested.

John grinned. “I don’t mind if you don’t, love,” he said, winking. “C’mon, no one’ll be watchin’ us. Ev’ryone’s sleepin’,” he cooed, raising Paul’s hands to kiss them.

Paul caught a glimpse of the seriousness submerged beneath his lover’s sensual stare. All of the walls of Rome couldn’t stop Lennon once he got an idea in his head; he’d admitted that fact enough himself. “You’re serious aren’t you?” At this moment, clarity was Paul’s best friend, and he sought after it with a frown.

“Of course! Gimme one good reason why we shouldn’t fuck right ‘ere in the street.” There was a drunkenness in his eyes that wasn’t just caused from the pints he consumed earlier in the night; brimming within the pools of brown and gold was an intoxication from the mere thought of getting caught.

“I’ll give you _several,”_ Paul countered, his voice rising from ceaseless bafflement. “Me house is right up the road, I don’t wanna greet the early risers with two lads buggerin’ in the street, and I don’t wanna be lorry kill.” Paul finished off his list with rapid fire, only realizing the weight of his last argument after it was too late to revoke it.

John quickly averted his gaze, the drunken glee that shone so brightly now dulled to a somber stew as the words cut through his sloshed state deeper than they should have.

He spoke no more as he dawdled to a bus-stop bench some few feet away on the side of the road. He seemed to get along fairly steadily on his own, having most likely sobered some from the haunting words. Rather than clinging to him, Paul cautiously followed behind, prepared to support John should he need it--but that was probably the last thing he wanted from Paul right now. He felt like such an insensitive arse. The death of John’s mum, Julia, was a three-year-old scab, and Paul was the twitchy finger inevitably picking at the wound, leaving it to fester.  He was a part of the healing process but had now cocked things up with a slip of the tongue. The one person who was supposed to _get_ John had driven the sharpest knife in his chest.  

Rejected and lackluster, the auburn haired boy flopped down on the cold, metal bench. Paul followed suit but consciously left a small gap between he and his boyfriend; every inch as palpable as a cold hand on the back of his neck. He was unsure of what mood John would fall into--Violent Drunk John, Depressed Drunk John, or Cold Drunk John--and wanted to discourage any animosity arising from his proximity. These situations were like going into a bear cave blind: there was an ominous knowledge of a beast in hibernation capable of being awoken with one misplaced footfall.

Paul didn’t have to fret long over the distance between he and the brooding Lennon, however, for John shifted over within a few minutes, effectively closing the gap. The eldest rested his weary head on the firm shoulder of his younger mate and stared blankly ahead. Paul let out a grateful sigh of relief he didn’t realize he had been holding in and wrapped his arm around the comfort-seeking body beside him.

“Suppose you’re still not ready to go home yet, eh?” Paul lightheartedly questioned.

“Feel sick,” was his mumbled response.

Paul reassuringly squeezed John’s shoulder. A self-loathing part of Paul couldn’t help but remind himself it wasn’t just the alcohol making John nauseous. The lad could hold his drinks better than the toughest sailors on the docks, and Paul had only ever seen him throw up three times--each occasion being from benders. Though John wasn’t immune to nasty hangovers, Paul knew the few pints he’d downed wasn’t enough to make him spew.

He silently chastised himself for opening his mouth in the first place. If he had just submitted to John’s senseless whim and let him have his way with him in the street, he wouldn’t have to suffer in this dejected ambiance.

Paul laid his head atop the tuft of auburn locks resting on his shoulder and let his eyes fall closed. A comfortable, companionable silence always suited them. Paul reasoned an apology would be in order but was apprehensive to spoil another content atmosphere with his broken tongue. They were better at explaining their feelings through touch, looks, and music anyway.

John interrupted the white noise of rustling trees and nocturnal chitters surrounding them with a less slurred but lazily mumbled _Heartbreak Hotel_.

“ _Well, since my baby left me--well, I found a new place to dwell. Well, it’s down at the end of Lonely Street at Heartbreak Hotel._ ”

The words haunted the similarly lonely Forthlin Road from the halfhearted effort with which they were sang--or rather, said. Paul cringed at the underlying meaning of the bluesy Elvis hit. In his own pessimistic mind, the words roughly translated to: “ _Well, since Paul is a cunt--well, he won’t be gettin’ none. Well, he’ll sleep by himself on Forthlin Road and die all alone._ ”

In the midst of Paul’s early morning crisis, John continued steadily. “ _Well, I’ll be--I’ll be so lonely, baby. Well, I’m so lonely. I’ll be so lonely, I could die._ ”

John faltered off of his monotonous rendition of the tune with a low drone. His voice was so lifeless and gruff compared to the booming bellows of his boisterous stage persona.

“Yer not gonna leave me, are ye, Macca?” he suddenly asked, unguarded insecurity dripping from every word.

This was it…. This was the John Lennon whom Paul lived to protect. The broken boy from the broken home who hides behind a mask of greased curls and cheap cigarettes. Paul saw hot flashes of red when anyone came close to the boundary of this side of John Lennon he lived to love. His Johnny. _His._ He may be one to occasionally and unintentionally wound him with the careless flailing of his tongue, but he damn sure was the only one who could fix him…understand him.

“No, baby. Never. Never, Johnny.” Paul tightened his grip and brought his other arm around to hold him in a loving embrace. Paul was safe now, as if _he_ were the one being held--knowing this broken boy couldn’t cut him because he himself was broken, too. Two broken pieces that made one whole.

He nuzzled the thick, disheveled mop of hair he loved so much, kissing it while his olfactory senses worked overtime to bask in the scent he can only so simply describe as _home_.

John couldn’t resist but to snuggle closer, practically trying to meld them into one body…one soul.

“How do you know? Why are you so sure?” he said. A drop of insecurity rolled down his cheek, disguising itself as a tear. Two drops of fear followed.

Paul repositioned himself to look more fully at John. The older boy tried to avert his eyes in this moment of weakness, but Paul’s firm yet gentle hand cradled his chin and redirected his gaze. Unshed abandonment brimmed in his glistening eyes. With the tender sweep of his thumb, Paul discarded the toxic tears on his cheek.

Suddenly, sitting on a metal bus-stop bench in the middle of a still summer night at two a.m., Paul realized he had never seen something as beautiful as his slowly-sobering best mate and secret lover. John was the epitome of a masterpiece: frantic brushstrokes captured the essence of his larger-than-life grandeur while only a critical eye such as Paul’s could fathom the precision of emotions clouded by the exuberance. With wrinkled leathers, rosy cheeks, doleful eyes, and a collapsing quiff, Paul was graced with a work of art to which nothing compared.

“Hey, look at me,” with a hand under his chin and another at his cheek, Paul cradled John’s face like it was fine china, “you’re my _everything;_ I’ve never been more sure of _anything_. If I lose you, I’m losin’ a big part of myself that I’ll never get back _._ I love you so much, John. Christ, you have _no_ idea.” Paul flashed a fleeting, reassuring smile. He leaned in, sealing his words with a firm kiss to John’s slightly chapped lips.

John frowned from the overwhelming emotions and clung to Paul’s wrists, returning the kiss leisurely but fervently. He could taste the sweet consolation on the other boy’s soft lips.

“Don’t ye ever get tired of me?” John internally cringed at the pathetic squeak of his voice. His constant seek for assurance made him feel like a burden to Paul--more of a burden than when he’s drunk.

Paul thumbed over the lips he just kissed--the ones spilling self-doubt. He directed his gaze to the sunken eyes before him and offered a genuine smile. The embodiment of certainty.

“Of course I’m tired. Tired of me da’ ridin’ me back, tired of not gettin’ gigs, tired of school. But never of you…. I’m never tired of you, John.”

John turned his eyes away from Paul’s penetrating stare and quietly scoffed. “Yeah…well, most people--” He was abruptly silenced with a firm finger to his lips.

“Hey, stop.” Paul’s delicate features were etched with authority, and if the finger on John’s lips hadn’t shut him up, then his lover’s intense look and tone of voice certainly would have done the trick. “ _Most people_ don’t matter. Fuck ‘em. It’s just me n’ you, yeah? That’s all that matters.” Paul softened back to his charismatic self once he was satisfied with his mild scolding. “Now, I don’t want to see those lips moving again unless they’re on mine.”

With Paul’s index finger still pressed to his mouth, John grinned and nodded. He’d never felt like such a schoolboy in his life. But no headmaster’s reprimands had ever been as effective as that of teddyboy McCartney’s.

Paul finally retracted the temporary muzzle he placed on John’s lips. A sudden elation washed over John, and he pulled his younger friend toward him, struggling against flailing limbs to get him in his lap. Paul threw his head back in howling laughter at the occasional tickle from John’s nimble fingers.

With Paul seated securely in John’s lap, the latter continued his assault for a few more minutes, wearing a contagious grin on his face as he revelled in his lover’s squirmish movements and laughter. He was convinced there was no greater music.

“Stop! Johnny, sto-ha-ha-op!” With his face scrunched up in laughter and stomach clenched taut, Paul breathlessly pleaded and vainly swatted at his attacker’s hands.

Even though his face wore all of the guilt in the world, John settled for denial. “What? ‘M not doin’ nothin’. I don’t see the problem here.”

“Y--ye know what yer doin, ye p--prick.” He kicked his legs at an invisible assailant and willed the few pints he’d consumed not to make an appearance in his bladder now.

“‘M not doin anything!” John vouched for himself like he was on trial. “And if I were--which I’m _not_ …you’d be missin’ the magic word.”

“ _Please_ for the love of all things pure and holy!”

“Oh…there it is.”

John finally relented with a fond smile as Paul rested his head on his shoulder to calm his breathing. John brought one hand up to comb through the dark hair and wrapped his arm around Paul’s curved back. Once his heartbeats stopped resembling the pound of a bass drum, Paul lifted his head.

“What was all of that for? Y’know, I would’ve put up less of a fight if you had just asked nicely for me to sit on your lap.”

“But where’s the fun in that? Plus, I like it when you laugh…it cheers me up.” He nuzzled Paul’s perfect nose.

Paul grinned and tried to ward off the blush creeping onto his already warm cheeks. “You’re goin’ soft on me, you are.”

“Only fer you, babe.” John winked and gave him a peck on the cheek. “But actually, I’ve gone quite hard, what with you wigglin’ ‘round on me lap.” With a mischievous grin, he grabbed Paul’s hand and placed it on the slight bulge in his trousers.

Paul rolled his eyes but didn’t remove his hand. “You sure do know how to ruin a moment.”

“Love you, too, Paulie.”

“Love you more, Johnny.”

Before John could object or respond with their usual “ _not as much as I love you_ ” or “ _i_ _mpossible_ ,” Paul shut them both up with a sweet kiss and grabbed John’s flushed cheeks, peppering his face with affectionate kisses.

“You’re--my--best--friend--Johnny,” he spoke between pecks, travelling from the corner of John’s mouth to the crease between his brows and every neglected place in between.

It was John’s turn to fall victim to a fit of giggles, though they were much softer. He screwed up his face at Paul’s wet kisses but kept him in a possessive embrace with strong arms at his waist.

Paul finally sat back and admired his invisible work with a content sigh. He met the glossy yet sobering stare of his best mate’s with a soft smile full of as much adoration as his young, lithe body could muster. John followed Paul with his eyes as the younger boy finally rose from his lap and extended a beckoning hand to him.

“Let’s go home, Johnny,” Paul cooed softly.

At the warmth of Paul’s words, a small smile tugged at John’s lips, and he found Paul’s hand with his own, being gently pulled from the bench.

“Yeah…home….”

He murmured partially to himself as he looked down at their entwined hands. He uttered the unfamiliar word almost cautiously, as if feeling it out for the first time--tasting it on his tongue and pushing it past his lips.

Home. Perhaps it was an acquired taste. John always believed he never had the right to use the word. That word was preserved for people with mummy’s and daddy’s who loved and cherished their children--who ate dinner together and lived in a nice house with family photos lining the walls. It wasn’t a word for little boys who were sent off to live with their aunties and orphaned by the age of seventeen.

However, glancing at the boy to his left, with his windswept hair and dreamy gaze, John could not seem to find a more appropriate term to describe the love and security he felt.

_Home_. John could certainly get used to the taste of that.

Giving his head a small shake to escape his reverie, John nudged Paul’s shoulder. “Sure you still don’t wanna take me up on that earlier offer?” He asked with a teasing grin and comical wiggle of his eyebrows.

Paul chuckled and gave Lennon a light shove. “Not in this lifetime, Johnny boy.”

“Oh, that’s alright, Paulie. You’ll come around eventually. ‘M not so easily dissuaded, y’know.”

“Is that so? Well, I’m not so easily _per_ suaded.”

“Well, I _was_ gonna suggest we use yer bed just for tonight…but if you’re not up for it….”

“Oh…” Having not expected such an invitation at this hour, Paul was momentarily stunned. “Well, would you look at that--I seem to have stumbled across a sudden burst of energy! What was that you said about using a bed, Johnny?”

John grinned and thumped Paul on the forehead before bolting ahead down the street. “Race ye there, ye randy git!” he called over his shoulder.

Paul, briefly thrown off kilter from the assault, shouted after his mate. “Oi! I’ll have you hanged for such cheek!”

With his affronted lover hot on his tail, the older boy made a beeline for the promised protection of the McCartney household (and later, Paul’s arms). Meanwhile, their insecurities and woes remained firmly seated on the rickety, metal bus-stop far behind them.


End file.
